At least we could pretend
by Plunderer01
Summary: No one deserves to be forgotten. Edited
1. Speak

Please allow me to explain myself, first and foremost.

I will not disclose my name, for it is not important here. What you should know, however, it that I have attended this Skool for as long as I can remember. I have witnessed the merciless torment of the highest in the social order upon the lowest. I have removed myself, personally, from these comings and goings, to some extent in the name of sociology. For the purposes of my future, I have deliberately allocated myself the position of bystander. No action shall go unnoticed, nor escape observation. I will not allow myself to intervene in any situation. Because of this, friends are a luxury that I cannot afford. Sounds rather peculiar, yes?

Indeed it does, but what else should a prospective historian do?

Now that these specifics have been made known, I can proceed with the said events. Unfortunately, there are the 'outcasts' and 'freaks' that have been cast out from the so-called 'higher' ranks of this juvenile social structure. Typically there is little to no basis for these assessments; it's really quite distressing.

Oh, now I suppose I'm rambling. I apologize.

I speak more specifically of Dib, from Ms. Bitters' class. (I unfortunately, was her student as well in the fifth grade; luckily that was one year past. But I digress.) Even though I am not in his grade, rumors and stories regarding his questionable mental state and annoying rants of the paranormal have left even myself with a minute dislike of the boy. It is well known of his 'social rank' in this skool. (I try to refrain from using labels- they tend to stick.. Even still, it's hard to be objective here.)

So it happened that Dib had missed two days of skool. In the lunchroom, I heard little in the way of gossip. It's usually louder when he's there, though some days you couldn't tell. Two days stretched into a week, a week into two. The longer the absence of Dib, the more I started to hear rumors circulate.

"They finally locked him away. Lunatic."

"He hung himself. Took long enough."

"Maybe he went nuts and killed a bunch of people!" (I rolled my eyes at that one.)

"I heard he drowned." (Eh?)

"Pitiful stink-beasts!" (That kid is annoying.)

Sometimes people are colder than the temperature currently outside.

The overhead speaker system suddenly emitted a deafening eruption of electronic feedback for a split-second before the raspy voice of Ms. Bitters was heard. "Due to the fact that I have to account for every last one of you little maggots by state law, I am required to inform you that Dib Membrane is most likely not returning to skool soon. If you care, for further information, please speak with your respective homeroom teachers."

Shortly thereafter, we returned to class. People were whispering and giggling in their seats as the teacher proceeded with the lesson. I waited for someone to ask. For anyone to ask. I am NOT supposed to participate. No one.

I sighed. In the name of history, I raise my hand. The teacher looks at me in surprise. The others all turn to stare at me, like they have never seen me before. They probably haven't.

"Why?" It was very simple.

The teacher looked flustered for a moment, and gave an answer. "He slipped on some ice two weeks ago. He has a fractured skull, and has not woken up." I nod curtly, and record this.

Everyone looked annoyed at me for asking.

My blood suddenly freezes. Not necessarily for all the times others of his 'caliber' have been ridiculed and worse, ignored. Not even for Dib, specifically. (Like I have stated before, I don't particularly care for him.) I was afraid. I was, selfishly enough, afraid for myself.

Nobody cares.

The teacher drones on.

I am a bystander in life. I will continue to be, for I have made myself that way forever. I will strive to record events that nobody will remember. Now I have a new mission.

I will record the people, as well. So nobody forgets.

At least I won't.

I stand in the lobby of the ICU.


	2. See

One thing I've noticed throughout my scribing career is that I haven't really had to_ work_ at being unnoticed; people seem to forget me just fine. I am happy about that- at least in regards to my work.

(My work is important. Most people keep a journal; I keep ten. My room is littered with books and paper. A bit of a fire hazard, I would imagine.)

To write is to be human, and my hands are made for it.

Like I've said before, I'm happy about being unnoticed. The weird thing is, however, on the rare occasions that I do not attend class, the teacher never seems to address me about it the next day. That bothers me a little; but overall, I'm happy.

I think.

After skool is through for the day, I manage to hop on a bus heading to the downtown. As bus engages, the hydraulic-driven doors hiss shut, and the strained roar of the engine loudly broadcasts its opposition to movement. I sit down and scribble my notes for the day.

Mercy Central is my stop. The vehicle screams to a halt.

I walk through the entrance. The sliding doors fail to activate, so I have to walk through them. Inside, people appear and flutter by as if out of a need to constantly _move_, operating not unlike a mega-organism. The soft noise of doctors and nurses' rubber shoes squeaking on the linoleum as I pass by heighten my senses. I note their expressions and demeanor for later.

I slip into a nondescript room, pen at ready.

At first, I notice only white and shine. My eye shortly becomes accustomed to the unbroken patterns of the white, and I begin to pick out a body amongst it all.

Dib's eyes are shut loosely; his body relaxed around the wires and machines. The only thing paler than his skin is the bandage around his head. His breathing is even, and his heart, (at least according to the machine) continues to beat.

I wonder what machine is keeping him alive.

I sit in a chair parallel to his feet, in the corner. I prop my chin on the palm of my hand and wait. Murmurs and whispers of the intensive care nurses as they attend their duties lull even me into a trance-like state. I begin to wonder.

To wonder what makes him _Dib_. (Of course, this is for the record, so that people will remember his existence.)

He must feel so alone. (This isn't a mere entertainment of my fancy, but a hard fact. I can only tell you want I see, not what I think. I am a historian. I MUST be objective.) He has no friends. I myself, have observed other children laughing and jeering at him in whatever context one can imagine. I don't pity him, or with anyone else with similar concerns; I cannot. Plus, one can grow accustomed to it.

I frown.

He rants and raves about UFOs and aliens and ghosts with such obstinate faith that everyone assumes he's insane. Faith, I suppose, is equated with crazy. I don't believe he's mad, but I write what I see.

Regardless if what I see is the truth.

His chest rises and falls with the machines. He doesn't move.

Hours later, I look up at the night sky, wondering just what it is that I see there.


	3. Error

First and foremost, I must admit a to grievous instance of negligence on my part. I have often times repetitiously stated my adherence to not only objectivity, but to a strict account of record-keeping. I have not been the most truthful; and important occurrence has not only slipped my mind (If _that_ was the only problem, I need not to have mentioned it.) but I cannot find this event in my records.( This unpleasant discovery disturbed me so that I did not attend class. I spent the day retracing my steps and recording it instead.)

Oddly enough, it was my daily visit to Dib Membrane's room at Mercy Central that reminded me of my error.

This was the peculiar case of Kit McLayne, a former student at the Skool. I, (along with her scant family), attended the services following her death in an accidental house fire. It was wintertime, perhaps a year ago.

(How could I forget such an event? Even then, when I wasn't recording for the people, I was at least writing for history.)

I reflect upon this, and remember why my visit to Mercy reminded me.

The day following the service, I became aware that I had not procured the proper dates of birth and death for the hapless girl, and ventured to the snow-covered grave site to retrieve it. (This was before I wrote everything down right at that moment; it seemed rude to jot notes at a funeral.) Amidst the sweet sounds of songbirds and silent shuffling of the frozen ground, I noticed footprints in the freshly fallen powder.

Dib was there, staring at the grave.

Why, I do not know, and probably never will. I backed away, trying not to be seen and left the area, fully intending to return later. Incredulously enough, I never did.

I forgot about her.

But Dib didn't.

I worry about my abilities.

* * *

(Rather short chapter, I know. Don't worry, it'll get better.)

Pokemongirl99: Heh, I was actually looking for a philosophy section to place it in, but I agree that spiritual does the trick. That was a very well-thought out review, and you hit on points I was trying to make. (I am _very_ happy that people are picking up on this, sometimes I think I can be too off-the-wall and obscure for my own good.) I suppose you _could _draw that conclusion as well regarding the disconnect of the people. Very interesting. Thank you very much for your input!


	4. Truth

To the world I must convey a distressing piece of news. Dib is to be disconnected from the wires and machines in one week, if he does not wake.

He breathes, in and out. I remain in the position I'm in, (the corner) and absent-mindedly scribble my annotations of the day. The glaring brightness in this place bombards my eyes with such an onslaught of photons that I am constantly squinting. I hiss to myself, for I cannot shut them.

I will concur on one previous observation; Dib is, apparently, not totally alone. The odd child from his class, Zim, came to stare on more than one occasion. Zim makes no moves towards Dib during these encounters; he just spits out an incongruously associated sequence of insults at him. After venting and waving his arms about in a vaguely menacing fashion, Zim departs.

I think Dib is right.

* * *

Professor Membrane is a curious individual. He seems to be almost above his fellow man; albeit that position is in the name of science. Very little is known to the public regarding his personal life.

One can, indirectly, know of a person through the others that know him. In the case of the Professor, his children. Their lack of knowledge tells me everything I need to know.

The professor is already immortal in the minds of men. Because of this, even I don't need the truth. He has _made_ his truth. His perception.

Free, perpetual power. Medical advances. Temporal displacement.

To others, the truth is in the light that comes on when they flip the switch. The truth is in the child crippled by a debilitating disease.

That's all the truth we want.

I glance over at the hospital bed, and speculate on whether certain sacrifices are acceptable.


	5. Mercy

I am left alone as the rush subsides; a few discarded valentines dance and waft about in the air, before settling despondently to earth. I hear the voices of the students echo down the hallway. The reverberations are hollow. I follow them.

I take my seat in the lunch room next to a table not far from Zim. My current notebook is nearly full of observations; I pull another out of my bag. As I do so, I reflect on this Valentine's Day. It has not escaped my scrutiny that the emotions expressed here are seemingly awkward. (Given not only the age of the participants, but also in the imposed nature of the holiday.)

I have long since realized the false nature of this affair.

(But, I ramble. This particular notation is not about the holiday. An interesting event occurred, while, not being any more or less important than others, deems supplementary attention. Yesterday, I believe.)

I decided to forgo the bus and walk to Mercy. The sky was bright but gray; my legs were stung by the dead leaves whisked about by the wind. (The course I must tread through leads me past a more derelict part of town; for about two blocks, it is mainly broken glass and graffiti-laced buildings.) I was so frantically recording what I saw that a cry of mourning snapped me suddenly out of my reverie.

A woman was sitting on the steps of an old, frozen stone building. She was wailing, her hands covering her face. The sorrowful sob echoed through the air like discarded paper floating in the breeze.

"My baby…my baby…" Her voice trailed off.

My expression softened ever so slightly. I wanted to reach out to touch her.

I immortalized her pain forever with my pen and moved on.

* * *

I am lying on the floor in the hospital room, perpendicular to the bed. My arms are spread-eagled; in my left hand I loosely hold a pen, and my notebook in my right. The backs of my fingers touch the cool, bright linoleum.

I stare up at the fan lazily undulating with a muted clacking sound. It hardly stirs the stale air.

He has three days.

I think about how useless a fan is in the wintertime.


	6. Disconnect

Zim is confused. I can tell, by the way he flails his slim arms about and screams at Dib's prone form. This is the fourth time he has visited the hospital; and every time he does the same thing. I know now that Zim is not Dib's friend. (It mildly puzzles me as to his commitment. I will not speculate on their relationship- at least, if I do, I won't document it formally.)

However, his confusion does answer some questions. They are fighting. Not as one would fight with a loved one or friend, but_ literally_ fighting. I would surmise over power, dominance, or perhaps the earth itself. If not, then they are merely rivals.

Zim doesn't know what to do.

He spits. "You STUPID earth monkey! How could you FALL for that?" He points accusingly in the direction of Dib's head. "You are PATHETIC! Hitting your head was all it TOOK?"

He stops. "It wasn't_ supposed_ to work."

Dib, of course, does not verbally respond. The hiss of pumped air is his retort.

"Good morning, son!" The Professor bursts into the private room; he opens the blinds with an enthusiastic fury. Obscenely gray light floods the room, poisoning the artificial illumination. He turns, and notices Zim.

"Hello! You must be my son's little foreign friend! Are you here to encourage his recovery?" Zim narrows one eye in confusion.

"Eh? Human, I am here to witness his DOOM!" He pauses.

"Why are_ you_ here?"

Something unreadable traverses the Professor's face for a brief moment. "I am here to visit my son, of course! Well, I had an opening in my insanely busy schedule, anyway. I'm sure he'll be better soon!"

He inclines his head towards the door.

"Gaz, come in here! Say hello to your brother!" He chirps merrily at these words.

She saunters in, head bowed in reverence to her gaming system. The tinny beeps and blares emanating from the machine echo around the room like love from an empty heart. Squinting at her father, she glances momentarily at her prone sibling. "Can I pull the plug?" she inquires.

The Professor pales considerably. "Daughter! We'll have none of that!"

He looks at the chart at the foot of Dib's bed.

"Oh."

Gaz glimpses up, again. "Let's go."

Zim looks disgusted, closes the blinds, and leaves. His footsteps reverberate down the hall.

"He's an alien, you know." I say to no one in particular.

* * *

**

* * *

**

**Maran Zelde** (1st review): Thank you for the comments. The narrator is neither above nor beneath other people; s/he is just separate. If you want an analogy, (because I have to constantly remind myself not to get the narrator too involved) I guess you could say this person is like God in the sense that he would exist outside of time, watching everything without being exactly there. Yes, the fact that an alien race exists is exciting to the narrator, but the point is to wait for something to happen so s/he can record it. The narrator can't, in the interest of unbiased documentation, do anything more with the information. Does that make sense? (BTW, the person is one year ahead of Dib.)

"Truly this person is even more abnormal than Dib, **but no one realizes it**."

Exactly.

**LadyApocalymon**: Thank you. Heh, I strive to not make my personal Livejournal. I get sick and tired of over-angsty Dib and suicidal Zim constantly cutting his wrists or whatever. It's just too much. (At least I hope this fic isn't too angst.)

**Maran Zelde** (2nd review): Huh…I guess it could be an original story. Never occurred to me. (I'm kinda slow, sometimes.) Be glad you have someone like your aunt. The things you want to forget are oftentimes the things you should NEVER forget. I really do appreciate you taking the time out for those in-depth reviews!

**Awkwardxmoments** (1st review): Geez, fine, I'll make 'em longer.  I tried to express how the world views the Professor- no documentation needed for him.

**Awkwardxmoments** (2snd review): Quite honestly, I'd forgotten that the valentines were made out of meat. View the dancing ones as…uh….beef jerky! Or paper. If someone doesn't like you in skool, you get a paper valentine. (As opposed to a cool meat one, I guess.)

**Chickens**: You shall see soon.


	7. The bridge

I am standing on the roof of an old car. I look down at the people; they pass me with a strong one-minded resolve to get to their respective destinations. I wonder what circumstance made me notice and record those people in particular- and what unfortunates may never grace my paper. The stories that they all hold only unite once in this small amount of time that I am here to see them.

I think that they are lucky that they did, otherwise they would have been lost forever.

I also see ones that have already been lost. They walk the streets, slipping in and out of the crowds. In and out of the same oblivious crowds that have no idea how beautiful they are.

* * *

His last sunrise scratches the earth with a harsh light. I turn my head from the window, where I have been standing. I have no pen, no paper. I have resolved to wait until the funeral.

Zim is not present. Dib's sister and father are, however. (The doctors are there also, but they are not important now.) His father glances at the chart in his shaking hand. (I think he wants to argue with someone, but I can't tell.) The Professor looks despondent. Gaz flips off her Gameslave, but only at the command of her father.

She looks expectantly at him. He nods.

I cannot read the expression on her face as she reaches for infinity.

Gaz switches off the machine. It sighs tiredly for a moment, and then dies. The heart monitor sings out a mourning tone as it loses its objective.

Despite the solemn nature of the event, I could not help but notice the Professor frequently glance at his watch.

Two minutes pass, and they leave. His sister pauses at the doorway, and turns her head.

"You can have him now." She whispers, perhaps to God. I am taken aback as she looks in my direction. She leaves.

Five minutes pass. I wait for him to wake up.

The heart monitor drones on, unconscious of its memorandum. The sound unites with the new light of the day; it lulls me into a stupor. I glance at my watch. I see that it has stopped.

Thirty minutes later, I am still waiting.


	8. Epilogue One: Global Focus

I do venture to speculate, at times, what things men will never come to know. Perhaps not what, but _how_ we shall never know. This is what inhibits our understanding of things beyond our own narrow scope; what we can become. I dread this lack of awareness may one day devastate my race. I fear not necessarily for my own personal safety, (as linear events typically work themselves out in a logical manner) but for the destruction of my records. (This destruction is inevitable, of course, due to the nature of the Irken Empire.)

To this, I must devise a manner in which to preserve my methodology; I can no longer rely on only myself. My concern is not only for the Earth.

Empires rise and fall. Great kings always return to the stars as dust; many have attempted, and failed, to prevent it. Ignorance factors into a vast majority of failures on Earth. I can only imagine how many millions of worlds have suffered the same wretched consequence.

Mankind's steady, dim glow averaged out the erratic, fiery flame of one child. The world wasn't ready for Dib. But it will be.

(Once Zim's people arrive, it _will_ be.)


End file.
